Tea and Coffee
by RagingRedStar
Summary: Desmond's desperate to get out of the den, and drags Shaun out for a mid-morning coffee. The boys run into some trouble, resulting in a heavily injured Shaun and a very anxious Desmond. Will they pull through? Oneshot, complete. Lots of whump and angst, as per usual. No slash for today, just friendship. Probably filled with errors, very sorry.


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_This started off as a really light drabble while I was playing Revelations in June and ended up becoming this 12,000 word work. I honestly don't know how that happened. It's been sitting on my computer since then and I said to myself I would rework it and tidy it up a bit, but I really don't have time any more and I'm uploading this for the sake of it – to get it out of the way, per se. _

_I've been working on three or four other things since then and I think this is done and dusted, to be honest – despite its flaws. So if this seems disjointed and messy, I'm very sorry ._._

_This originally started off as a fluffy friendship ficlet and turned into full blown angst and whump. I don't want to know what that speaks about me – and don't ask me why I like hurting my favourite characters, I guess I'm a bit of a sadist. _

_Moving on..._

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**Tea and Coffee **

.

**::**

.

"You're a prat – you know that, right?"

Desmond throws Shaun a quick reproachful glance and then turns his eyes back to the street to look for a coffee shop. Shaun huffs out a visible breath of irritation, fogging his glasses slightly in the winter morning's air. When Desmond had first met Shaun these insults would have once fazed him, but now he understands they lack real merit – it's Shaun's way to be overly bitter about everything. The bartender doesn't take it personally.

Desmond smirks.

"What are you smirking about – Wow, you've _actually_ lost it haven't you?"

"Would you calm down? You're ruining the outing."

"The _outing?_" Shaun exclaims preposterously. "Oh, Lucy is going to kill us – _if _the Templars don't."

"Keep it down." Desmond reminds him.

Shaun tucks his hands into his armpits, the action making his jacket creak stiffly. He gives another melodramatic puff as Desmond's face lights up in finally discovering a coffee shop.

"See! Here, not five blocks away from the hideout. Perfectly safe." Desmond looks at him and grins daftly, making Shaun's eyebrows knit even further.

"Yeah, safe. Sure." The historians humphs bitterly.

Desmond doesn't respond and strides across the paved street, devoid of traffic. Shaun follows him morosely inside the coffee shop – which in stark contrast, seems to be full of people.

"I guess we're not the only ones wanting a mid-morning coffee, huh?"

"There's coffee back at _home_." Shaun mutters, changing his wording as they enter the public space. Desmond keeps the door open for him, and gives him a sceptical glance as he enters wordlessly.

"That's not coffee – it's dirt, _grit_. Don't you want a _true_ coffee?"

"No." Shaun answers truthfully, and they seat themselves at the counter on tall leather stools. The British man hunches himself over the counter, rubbing his hands together with a sour look plastered across his face.

Desmond removes his scarf and Shaun keeps his on. "That's right, you like tea, don't you?"

Shaun barely turns his head to give a small scoff. "Yes. I like _tea_. And I think we'll be hard-pressed to find anywhere in all of Italy that brews a decent cup. What I wouldn't give for a cup of Yorkshire Gold..." He trails off, ceasing rubbing his hands to place his elbow on the counter, supporting his head with one listing palm. "I hope your Italian will suffice." He adds as a closing remark.

"I think I'm getting pretty good, actually."

The waitress is a blonde – though her hair is darker than Lucy's, it falls wavier, slightly more dishevelled from her hurried day's work. Desmond orders two cups of coffee and beams at her as he does.

"_Grazi._" He finishes, tilting his head politely. She smiles back and hurries away again, gone as fast as she came.

A silence settles over the two then. Desmond turns to Shaun to see him spinning a sugar sachet with his index finger, albeit shivering significantly less than a few minutes before.

"You don't need to look so miserable." Desmond remarks, lifting an eyebrow.

"Sorry, mum."

"I'm serious. What's the big problem?"

"My _problem_ – " Shaun nearly hisses. " – Is that Templars are scouring the entirety of Europe looking for us, and here we are in a coffee shop in plain sight."

"You're scared?"

Shaun stops spinning the sachet. "I'm anxious. Lucy and Rebecca don't know where we are –"

" – I _did _leave a note." Desmond tries to correct, but Shaun cuts him off with a scowl.

"You left a note saying we were_ out. _They don't know where. What if something does happen?"

"It won't. We're five streets away – it's just a coffee. What's the worst that could happen?"

Shaun laughs derivatively. "Do you want me to list it alphabetically? Or on a scale of _awful_ to _disastrous_?"

"You're so pessimistic." Desmond retorts absent-mindedly, watching the suns rays caught on the river across the street. The slight veil of fog was parting now, small boats swaying on the lapping waves.

"I needed to get out." Desmond added. "Being cooped up like that, it was driving me crazy."

The unintended innuendo makes itself apparent to Desmond only seconds after the words have left his lips. Shaun doesn't miss it either, he turns his head slightly away from Desmond and gives a gentle, concerned sigh.

"I know." He murmurs.

Desmond forces himself to swallow. "But it's getting better – I'm not breaking into Italian as much any more, am I? And I hardly ever fall into Arabic any more. I just... need time to clear my head. That's all."

Shaun turns to face him and looks squarely at Desmond, the scorn and bitterness in his face completely lacking – _for once_ – Desmond thinks. It's a look of genuine concern, although not overly. He watches the small exhale of resignation escape him.

"Okay, let's just enjoy the coffee."

Desmond smirks a little before Shaun cuts in again.

" – But if we do this again, we let Lucy and Rebecca know where we are going _beforehand_."

"It's a date." Desmond laughs and Shaun raises his eyebrow precariously as the coffee arrives.

The waitress slides the cups over to them with a gentle smile, then scoots to a booth to the right of Desmond, farthest from the door. He watches her go with a bemused fascination, the clichéd pencil sticking out from behind her ear – she looks exactly how a waitress should look.

Shaun cups the coffee in the palms of his hands for a while, his nose slightly dipped into the rising steam, brown irises locked on brown coffee. Desmond notices this idly for a few seconds and takes his first sip, giving a genuine sigh of appreciation at the fine taste.

"That's more like it." He smiles.

Shaun takes his first sip and irks his head. "This is quite nice." He remarks and Shaun beams at him in encouragement.

"See? A _true_ cup of coffee."

"I'd still prefer tea." Shaun replies belatedly. "I really don't understand the obsession with coffee. Tea is just as good."

"I guess it's the caffeine." Desmond offers, watching the steam rise from his cup contentedly. The warmth from the coffee shop seeps into him becomingly and he can't help but feel the gentle buzz of happiness settle inside him.

"Tea contains caffeine." Shaun replies weakly. "Admittedly not as much – but what is this obsession with coffee, nowadays? This widespread obsession with being in a perpetual coffee-_buzz_." Shaun mutters, taking a long sip.

"You're one to talk. You're up to all hours nearly every night." Desmond rebuffs.

"Yes, and I don't need coffee to do it." He bristles "There's nothing wrong with a good cup of tea, mate – a real gentleman's drink, that's what tea is. _Class_." He adds.

Desmond chuckles slightly and Shaun eyes him. "What?"

"Yeah, you're _all_ about class, aren't you Shaun? Eating microwave dinners at five in the morning."

Shaun's eyebrows knit indignantly. "Maintaining a busy schedule of keeping people _alive_ –" He shoots quietly "– Has been known to reduce me to eating the occasional microwaved meal. There's not really a lot of room for me to lead the high-life, and _besides_..." He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Fine dining isn't the only contender in defining a man's class. I'll have you know, back at University I was known as a bit of a... well, a bit of a _ponce, _actually."

"Are you sure they weren't calling you a dunce, Shaun."

"Oh, you really are bursting with _wit, _aren't you? You should go into stand-up."

Desmond laughs, tilting his head back as he does. When he returns his gaze to Shaun he notes the gentle smirk settled on his face. Desmond slaps him on the back, amicably, and laughs again.

"I like that term – a _ponce_. I think it suits you."

Shaun shakes his head and gives a low chuckle. "You're a prat."

"So you've said." Desmond places his empty cup on the small white saucer and smiles. "I knew you could laugh."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shaun murmurs, still sipping the remnants of his drink.

"Well for a while there, Rebecca and I thought you might be a robot."

"Ha _ha ha._"

Desmond goes to grab the napkin seated on the saucer, when he notices writing.

On the marble-patterned blue counter the stark white saucer sits idly, and resting atop lies the folded napkin. Scrawled on its flimsy layers in black pen are the words –

_PLEASE – read discretely!_

Desmond eyes the napkin curiously, resisting the urge to search for the waitress in the cafe. Shaun clinks his cup down with a benign sigh.

"I'll admit, that was good –"

"– Shaun, don't look now, but the waitress has slipped me a note."

"Oh, her number, I suppose." The British man adds snarkily, sliding his eyes to the saucer.

"I don't think so." Desmond says very quietly, and grabs the napkin as though to wipe his hands, and slips it into the pocket closest to Shaun's side.

"Oh, just open it and read it."

"It says _discretely._"

"It's probably a bloody love letter or something – here." Shaun snaps, and suddenly he feels deft fingers slip into his denims and remove the napkin.

" – Hey!" Desmond hisses angrily, straining to keep his face nonchalant.

Shaun unravels the napkin in his lap. Desmond leans past him so he remains out of view, and turns to face him and him only – anger lighting up his face. "That's _my_ note you –"

"–Shit..." Shaun whispers darkly. Desmond watches the historian's face turn solemn, his eyes still locked on the napkin from behind his glasses. Desmond follows his gaze and reads the hastily scribble notes.

_Men in far corner – DON'T LOOK – here for you. Asked to slip something in your coffee. Fifty thousand Euro. _

"Oh fuck..." Desmond mutters, rubbing his temple.

Shaun lifts the second fold to reveal the rest of the note.

_I can help. Come back-door._

"Take the napkin, wipe your hands, and leave it on the saucer. Now. Make it look convincing." Shaun hisses at him.

Desmond does as he says, feeling his stomach turn. "_Templars?_" He whispers, trying not to let his mouth move.

"Likely."

"I think it's safe to say we're not drugged, then?"

"They're after you. If the drinks had been poisoned, I figure you'd be out-cold by now and I'd be dead." Shaun explains expressionlessly, his voice nearly unheard by Desmond only a foot away. "Best bet is to go out the back-door, like she says. We'd have to go past them to get out the front door – plus they'd know something's afoot. Oh, _bollocks_." He hisses angrily.

"I'm sorry." Desmond tries.

"Concentrate on getting out of this cafe first, apologies later." Shaun straightens his back, stretches out his left arm with an eloquent causality that Desmond takes a few seconds to admire, and stands up from the stool.

The waitress moves out from the kitchens, her face not betraying her. She feigns a small smile and clasps her hands together.

"_Siamo spiacenti, ma non vi è stata una certa confusione per quanto riguarda il pagamento. Potete venire con me?" _Desmond almost loses her halfway, his mind working hurriedly to understand the language. She was asking him to come through – confusion with the bill. He gives the uncomprehending Shaun an exasperated look.

"_Naturalmente._" Desmond gives her a false, tired look. She nods and leads them both through, Shaun's face not betraying his complete confusion.

And then they are making a bee-line through the kitchen. They pass a great iron door, and she closes it behind them with a great puff of air. Something clicks and locks behind them, and she exhales in relief.

"I hope you two are not criminals, and that I am making some grand mistake!" She exclaims, although reservedly, quiet enough to not cause alarm.

"You're competent in English?" Shaun queries, as if in casual conversation. Desmond notes her accent is thick with her Italian background, but he understands her just fine.

"Of course – most of us in Europe, do."

Shaun nods and Desmond jumps in. "We're not criminals."

She tilts her head in understanding. "I did not think the law would bribe me to slip sedatives into coffee. But you should make haste – I will take you to the alley. It leads past an automotive workshop – past there you should be at the river."

"Thank-you." Desmond tells her, his voice filled with gratitude.

"You need to hurry." She tells them, and begins weaving through the narrow white tunnels, filled with crates and stock. "Those men will surely be curious by now."

Desmond took a moment to acknowledge how she asked no more questions. He was thankful for that, he didn't really wish to explain the complexities of an Assassin-Templar conflict to a young waitress. He risks a look at Shaun, who returns it, his face fraught with worry, eyebrows knitted – more so than usual – in distaste.

Desmond feels his chest twinge with guilt. _What a stupid idea this was..._

A second iron door appears before them, and the waitress is deftly unlocking it with a small, copper key, her face pure concentration. As the door opens, a draft of cold air hits Desmond square in the face, and he remembers he has forgotten his scarf.

"With haste!" She ushers them out into the alley, both Shaun and Desmond's footfalls making dull echoes in the silence of the alley. Small puddles littered the cold, concrete ground and both their breaths become apparent once more – small grey clouds rhythmically tumbling out of his somewhat panicked chest.

The bartender lets his eyes take in the small alley – oily stains visible on the walls, hanging in disrepair – bricks missing from their slots. Then something irks him. There are no passageways, the alleyway does not lead on any farther – they're closed off on all sides.

He turns back to the waitress, his mouth opening to query her, to see she is turning too – her hand rising up from her side as she does. In the dewy morning light, a glimmer hits the metallic object in her hand. He feels his heart leap, and for a split moment his eagle vision returns, and she is red. Pure, blood red and her finger pulling down a trigger.

He realises he had heard a voice, from somewhere in the cacophony of panic, and is aware of force colliding with his shoulder. He stumbles as a high pitched whistling erupts from in front of him – it reminds him of his time as Ezio, like an arrow piercing air. He hears it hit and gasps as he collides with concrete.

Desmond's fingers splay out on slippery, ice cold stone to brace his body as he hits the ground. His eyes roll up to her – her face plastered with shock where cold determination had once rested. He gives himself a split-second to pat himself down, feeling no pain. No bullet. No arrow. And then he looks back up to where he had once been standing – and realises the voice had heard was Shaun yelling "_Lookout!."_

The historian shakily rips a small, clear dart from the centre of his chest with a slight gasp. The waitress removes the shock from her face – not lowering her gun as she scowls.

The dart clatters and rolls to Desmond's feet as he drops it. He sees the gluey-yellow remnants of a drug, and is starkly aware of the nearly-empty chamber.

"Shaun-" he groans.

" - Good shot." Shaun manages stiffly, directed towards the woman before him. Her scowl turns darker.

"That was not meant for you." She spits in pure English, her American accent revealing her treachery.

Shaun sways ever so slightly, but braces his body with a scowl of his own.

Desmond only sees her movements due to his experience with Altair and Ezio. Every inclination of her body, every movement she makes is with the utmost precision, fluidity and speed that his heart near-stops as she pulls the unmistakable shape of a gun from behind the folds of her apron.

"This _is_." She spits and fires.

Desmond tries desperately to fight off the sudden rigidity of his body, shock going through him like ice. He slides himself up, a strangled cry erupting from him.

"_Shaun!"_

His chest flutters as he sees the British man has dodged seconds before she fired. He sidles awkwardly, falling to a crouch and swiping her feet from under her with a deft kick. She yelps as she falls straight onto her back and into a grimy puddle, the pencil rolling out from behind her ear.

Shaun moves towards her to swipe the gun from her fist – Desmond watches his knee give out, drunkenly, and he falls awkwardly short, his eyes dazed.

The waitress doesn't take time to aim her second shot. Lying with the wind knocked out of her, in a puddle on the alley floor, she shoots Shaun with a straight arm and an exasperated grunt of exertion. Before Desmond can reach her, he hears the bullet lodge itself in flesh.

He kicks the gun from her hand and it skitters away across stone. He kicks her temple, hard, and he goes still.

Desmond stands there for a moment, staring down at her unconscious face, panting like he had run a race. And then his mind reels in alarm, _Shaun, Shaun!_

He falls to his side.

"Hey, hey hey. Did she get you? Shaun, did she–" And then Desmond sees blood, welling from the black of Shaun's leather jacket, squarely in his collarbone. Shaun's eyes are dull and dazed, and he gives a weak groan, trying awkwardly to reach his chest with trembling fingers.

"W-well... _shit._" The Brit manages, his fingers touching the warm, stickiness of his own blood.

"Oh _fuck_." Desmond whispers, retracting his hands in shock. "I... I don't know how to... Shaun, I can't help. I'm a _bartender_."

"Need... Lucy. Rebecca." He exhales long and slow, his lips shuddering more than Desmond would like. "Get... away."

"How... Can you walk? Can you –"

"– Not.. me. You, _go_." Shaun hisses, and gives a small grunt of discomfort at his own exertion.

Desmond pales. "No. _No_. It's a chest wound – you can walk it, Shaun. It's only a few streets –"

"– Templars." Shaun cuts him off again, abruptly. "Drugged. I won't be awake... for much longer, mate." He mutters, wincing. "Go."

Desmond leans back on his own heels slightly, regarding Shaun in pure disorientation – shocked and terrified. "They'll kill you."

"Better me than... both of us." Shaun huffs out, and new blood wells to the surface of his chest as he speaks. He groans sharply and Desmond feels his own heart strings tug.

"Go." Shaun urges him, closing his eyes momentarily, his glasses lying forgotten nearby in a puddle.

Desmond looks at his face, his eyes closed and breathing laboured. He looks down at the one hand on his own chest – blood pooling around each individual finger.

_I don't know what to do_. He realises, shocked, unable to make a decision. He hates himself for his uselessness – Ezio and Altair would know what to do. Would Altair have left Malik? Would Ezio have left Leonardo? They were always so certain – he had lived them, experienced their sure-hearted determination and fierceness in wake of all danger and fear. And here he sat, kneeling in a puddle, while Shaun bled out.

"Get up." The bartender orders him, and grips the upper-half of Shaun's arm to hoist him to sit.

"You... prat..." Shaun begins, but a small bout of coughing cuts him off from his protest. "I said to go –"

"– You should know me well enough by now, Shaun, to know what I _never_ listen to you." And in spite of himself, he smiles, genuinely, at Shaun – who stares back at him through weak, half-open eyelids, but with wordless surprise.

"Des –"

" – C'mon. Lean on me." And Desmond is pulling him up to stand, his teeth gritting. Shaun's feet shake as they try to hold their ground, but he is up, standing.

Desmond eyes reel about, searching for something – _anything – _to help.

And then he sees the door. Wooden, old, barred and locked. But a door, nonetheless.

And with Shaun's weight listing on his shoulders, Desmond brings his leg up to his chest and strikes out with all the force he can muster – crippling the wet-wood and sending the panels toppling back, clearing a path out.

Then, he is running – as fast as Shaun's nearly dead-weight can allow them. He feels the British man sagging ever-more by each passing second, hears the laboured breathing become weaker.

"Don't fall asleep on me, now, Shaun." Desmond manages as they stumble through a stone hallway. His eyes flit about uncomprehendingly, trying to keep a sense of direction and to find a pathway to lead them out.

"...Bit...hard..." Shaun manages breathlessly back. He passes through another door-way and sees the cold white of a counter – empty, abandoned. The lights in small shop are off, and his eyes register a poster on the wall. An ice cream shop, a closed one.

He sees daylight beyond and hurries up to the locked glass. Thoughtlessly, he grabs a stool with one arm – the other still gripping Shaun's slackening waist. He flings it, as hard as his muscles can allow, and yanks both himself and Shaun back from the shower of glass and eruption of sound at metal upon metal.

He tugs Shaun's scarf off his neck and wraps it tight around a balled fist, then swipes the remaining shards of glass out of their panelling.

He feels Shaun's fingers that had been clinging to his far-shoulder for support, now weakening, slipping away.

"Hey! Shaun!" Desmond yells at him. "Stay _awake_."

Shaun replies only with a pained exhale, his head lolling down.

Desmond feels the beginnings of panic again – he can't do this alone. He needs Shaun to carry some of his own weight. "Look, recite... recite the Prime Ministers of England for me, okay? Right from the start."

"Don't... know..." Shaun protests as Desmond finishes clearing the window of glass.

"Of course you do!" Desmond hisses back. "You're a historian."

For a few, fleeting seconds, he thinks Shaun has finally passed out, and expects the arm clamped onto him to go lax. But with a surge of relief he hears Shaun's shaky voice.

"Sir... Robert... Walpole..." He manages, lifting his head up to the roof and wincing as he does.

"Great! Great. Who's next?" And Desmond is pulling him through the cleared window and out onto the street towards the river. _Over the river and back home_, his brain reminds him, and he picks up the pace – anxious to be out of the public eye.

"Spencer Com...Compton."

And then Desmond hears the gun-shot.

With lurching terror he cranes his head back, still running forward, to see the three from the coffee shop. Two sprinting towards him and one firing. Firing at _him_.

Adrenaline surges through him. "Who was after that, Shaun?"

"Can't..." He replies, so quiet that Desmond nearly winces himself, sympathy wracking him. Their hobbled effort is clearing ground – the river is so close. If they could just _cross _it...

Desmond finally feels the fingers on his shoulder lose their strength. He hoists his arm under Shaun's farthest armpit and up to keep him afoot, and shakes him pleadingly as he ploughs on farther.

"We're so close – Shaun, c'mon! _Shaun!_"

"...Hen...Henry...H..." Shaun gives a final breath of defeat and then Desmond is carrying them both, almost dragging Shaun's feet across the final feet of concrete. A bullet whistles past him, somewhere near, and he curses, sweat beading down his nose in the frigid morning air.

He'll never make it to the bridge.

More gunshots, yelling from close behind.

Desmond's heart leaps, and with crystal clarity he understands what has to happen.

For the final few feet, he dips his head down, driving a grunt from his clenched teeth and forcing his body forwards haggardly with all the speed and strength his weakening body can muster.

He passes the small posting, indicating the river's edge. He clambers quickly up onto the stone embankment, and leaps headlong into the air, plunging into the roaring, ice cold water below.

The shock as his body submerges in the river almost causes him to gasp whilst he and Shaun are still under. He struggles with a clawing hand up and back towards the surface, both their heads breaking back towards oxygen with the sound of rushing water deafening their eardrums. He keeps his other arm clamped tight around Shaun's waist, tugging him as close as he can muster towards his own torso.

Desmond makes out the sound of gunfire whistling and hissing as they pierce the water's surface around them.

The current pulls them under a wide stone bridge, and craning his neck he sees the Templars blocked by wall, unable to follow the river's course.

He loses track of where they are for a near half hour, his only priority keeping Shaun's lolling head above the water level and keeping his legs and free arm wading as a blur of tree and foliage passes them. He doesn't make for the side of the river for a long time, too afraid of Templars being at the sidelines, waiting for them.

When the sun is at the centre of the sky, he pulls Shaun to the shore and up onto a green grassy bank. Only then is he aware of the raggedness of his own breath as it tumbles fiercely from the chasm of his chest, shaking him and rattling him, his hands trembling from the cold. And then he's aware of how still Shaun is in comparison, his lips a cold pale blue and water drops still clinging to the ends of his eyelashes as he lies facing the sky.

Desmond reigns himself in again, afraid to let his own thoughts contemplate what these signs could mean, and moves in closer to inspect his wound.

The leather of Shaun's jacket lets the water sit in its folds, and even before Desmond removes it he sees the blood _still_ seeping out through the hole in his shoulder and into the creases of leather. Like a stranger to his own body, he hears a sound almost like a whimper pull itself from his lips and he gingerly pulls the leather jacket open and down Shaun's arm.

He clamps a hand over his mouth, wincing and gritting his teeth. Guilt courses through his veins like a physical substance, like ice and fire and pure pain that settles in the bottom of his gut as he catches a glimpse of the blooming red blood on Shaun's chest and the blatant chunk of flesh missing from it.

In the now open jacket pocket, Desmond sees Shaun's phone. Water glistens from its silvery surface.

_'Please_.' he begs to himself, '_Please, let it work.'_

His hands are clasped around the sturdy block of a phone, his head bowed. With his breath held in silent wishful prayer, he hits a button and almost cries as it bursts into life. His first thought is to call the police, an ambulance – but the Templars have control of everything. He can't risk that.

So he calls Lucy.

It takes all of his concentration to stop his fingers shaking as he finds the contact list and Lucy's name. It takes all of his determination not to let the tendrils of anxiety snake their way into his chest as the phone rings, and rings, and rings.

And it takes all of his will not to give a cry of relief when Lucy's unmistakably distraught voice reaches his ears.

"_Shaun?!_" She yells into the phone, a near scream of disbelief. "_Where in god's name are you, Rebecca and I –"_

"–Lucy, Lucy it's me, Desmond! Look–" His voice nearly breaks as he speaks to her, his eyes locked on the wound in Shaun's chest. "–Shaun's been shot."

He hears her gasp, a deep shuddering intake of breath. In the background he hears Rebecca asking what is wrong, but Lucy takes no notice.

"_Is he breathing?"_

Demond's heart skips a few beats. It hadn't occurred to him to even check. _How could that have happened? It's the first thing someone does. Check for breathing_. With startled anxiety he leans over Shaun's immobile form and presses an ear to his frozen lips, wishing his heart would stop thumping in his own ears long enough for him to clearly hear the shudder of a breath – of life stirring in Shaun's chest.

It's almost seven seconds before Desmond hears the tell-tale rush of air that signifies a breath. Though Desmond notes that thinking it a "rush" of air would be a bit of a leap – The historian's chest barely moved a hair's width, the exhale a slow draught of air, – a product of the broken, icy cold body it worked its way out of.

"Only just, but he's still lost a lot of blood." Desmond whispers into the phone. "He was shot once in the shoulder with a bullet – but this, this woman she... she sh-sh... _goddamn it!_" He exclaims, frustrated at his own suddenly useless mouth. "She shot him with some... _dart _or something, it had a drug in it – I don't know what it was and he passed out on me. Lucy–"

"_Tell me where you are._"

He spits out information, details of his surroundings, his eyes darting around the sky. Finally he manages to choke out the landmark mill a few miles down the river and she's telling him to sit tight, not to move, and to make sure Shaun keeps breathing by the time she can get there.

And then silence.

He leans over Shaun again and waits to hear a breath, his eyes locked on the wound leaking red all over Shaun's shirt and chest. He feels a surge of helplessness, a hopeless trapped sensation, coupled with a writhing guilt that the whole situation is his fault. He rubs his shoulders and bows his head into the crook of his own chest, wondering what on earth he was thinking. Maybe the animus had made him lose it – he had to be crazy, pulling a stunt like this. And jumping into a river? He wasn't Altair and he had an _injured man _with him. He digs his fingernails into the flesh of his arms and scrunched up his face with self-loathing.

The sound of Shaun struggled breath tears him from his suffering as the British man gives a gurgled cough of pain, and Desmond can nearly hear his lungs failing, his mind visualising a heart struggling to work.

"Shaun? Shaun, can you hear me?" Desmond tries, wondering if the bout of coughs is a sign of consciousness. But it isn't. After a few seconds his face and body go slack as death again and Desmond realises that in the fleeting seconds of panic he had leapt to hold Shaun's shoulders. Above Shaun then, Desmond looked plainly into his unconscious face, his heart thumping a mile an hour and cold shivers wracking him. He looks at his lips, even bluer than before and slightly more parted in their struggle for air. His skin is like a sheet of snow, devoid of any colour at all. The stark contrast of the red spreading over the white is terrifying.

"_Desmond!" _Someone is yelling. A woman's voice. Familiar.

'_Rebecca._' He realises with a start, tenderly releasing Shaun's shoulders as if he were made of golden leaf – ready to crumble apart in his hands, and stumbles to his feet, palming the loose tears away from his cheeks to turn and face the approaching van.

Lucy screeches the van to a halt farther up the embankment at the end of the dirt road, making no effort to be discrete. Rebecca is already leaping from back and making her way down the hill by the time Lucy even opens the driver's seat door. As they both run towards him he hears a gentle noise comparable to a sigh. It's a sound Desmond's never heard with his own ears but some rudimentary, primal part of him knows it signifies death. It's a soft, quiet wheeze of breath. It's a death rattle.

He falls back down to his knees, the world faltering around him.

_'No.'_

He leans back over Shaun's face, waiting for the tell-tale breath again, his hands finding a wrist and feeling no life beat beneath the flesh under his own fingertips.

'_No.'_

"Desmond! We need to get h–"

"– He's not breathing."

_'No.'_

Desmond is aware of his body being shoved back, but he feels disconnected from it – numb. He falls a few paces back, his eyes not tearing away from the blood and water soaked torso and face of Shaun Hastings. Rebecca is upon him then, beginning compressions, her face a visage of fierce determination. Blood flecks up the white of her sleeves and she pushes, her lips miming numbers for each interval and her own eyes not tearing from Shaun's face. Lucy takes his wrist, checking the pulse for herself.

"Jesus Christ, what was in that dart? Poison!?" Lucy exclaims.

"It couldn't have been – it was meant for me! The woman who shot him – she said it was meant for me, it has to be a sedative. Why isn't he breathing!" Desmond asked her back, his teeth chattering.

"His shoulder." Lucy murmurs. "He's lost too much blood."

"But it's a shoulder wound, his right shoulder! It didn't pass the lung or the heart –"

"The bullet hit the brachial artery, Desmond." Lucy doesn't turn to look at him as she speaks and Desmond feels the words hit him like a brick in his face. '_An artery? Oh god...'_

He watches through a shock and adrenaline fuelled haze, the world moving in fine detail and slow motion and suddenly he can see every flicker of movement with a perfect clarity. Rebecca's panicked breaths as she keeps up her compressions began to sound like choked sobs as she pushes herself down on Shaun's dead chest. Lucy is keeping her own weight on the wound at the other side of his torso, changing between searching for a pulse and listening for a breath.

Neither of them happen.

And Desmond is kneeling there, hands by his sides, water dripping from his hair and into the grass.

Three minutes pass. Lucy stops checking for a pulse.

Rebecca is openly sobbing now, but her compressions are perfect and she won't relent. Lucy sits back on her own heels, her hand snaking up to Rebecca's shoulder.

"That's enough, Bec." Lucy says softly. "That's enough."

Rebecca slides away onto her own heels, blood soaked hands moving up to cover her face, tears rushing over her nails as she does. "Fuck." She mutters, her voice choked and garbled.

_'No.'_

"No." Desmond says dumbly, and moves back between the two.

"Des..." Lucy mutters breathlessly.

"No." He repeats, the clarity washing over him like a drug. He leans over Shaun yet again, moves so his knees are at Shaun's sides and he is straight above. Desmond moves both hands over Shaun's still heart and begins compressions again.

"Desmond, please." Lucy pleads as Rebecca moves her shaking hands from her face tearfully. "We need to leave..."

He ignores her, his shoulders aching from the carrying Shaun and the cold of the water, he pushes, his mind counting aloud over Lucy's words.

Above them he hears a sparrow singing in the branches of a tree. It chirps almost gleefully in the warm of the day, a small gust of wind dancing through the leaves.

Desmond ceases compressions, moves up a little farther and places one hand onto Shaun's face, pinching his nostrils closed. He bows down calmly and pushes breath into Shaun's dormant chest, their mouths pressed. There is no anxiety or panic in him now, he can feel the presence of Altair and Ezio stirring in his pasts, the depths of himself. A pure, calculated calmness. Shaun cannot die because Desmond won't let him. Desmond will give him life.

He gives the two puffs of breath he has been taught, and stoically listens for the breath in Shaun.

"Breathe." He tells Shaun quietly. "Breathe."

The sparrow's call rises to a joyous crescendo, and Desmond wonders if it could be an angel in another form. Shaun's chest rises up and the blue lips pull in two clear lungfuls of air. Oxygenated, rich blood floods in and the heart leaps back to a start. Under the hand that Desmond has placed on Shaun's chest he feels it beat, can nearly hear the rush of oxygenated blood soaring gloriously outwards and feels the presence of life stir joyous relief inside himself.

He watches the chest under his palm rise up and down rhythmically, normally, healthily and lively and he softly moves his other hand away from Shaun's face. He feels the warmth of breath on his fingertips as he and the warmth of tears in his eyes.

He hears Rebecca gives a startled cry of shock, a shaking laugh of disbelief. Lucy moves past Desmond, her eyes locked on his face. He looks at her and she goes to say something, her lips lost for words. She shakes her head and applies pressure to the gunshot wound again, checking the pulse with forlorn puff of relief.

"We're not in the clear yet. He's lost a lot of blood." Lucy states. "Des, can you carry him to the van? Rebecca, I'm gonna need you to be up there readying some bandages while we get him up the hill, alright?"

Rebecca is nodding, wiping the tears away fiercely and up onto her feet in seconds. She tears off at a sprint up the hill while Desmond sidles his arms carefully under Shaun's neck and knees, lifting him and walking as fast and steadily as he can manage. Lucy is at his side.

"I'm not going to yell at you now, Desmond, but by god you should know this is the stupidest thing I've ever seen anyone do."

"I'm sorry." Desmond offers, his own voice feeling alien to his mouth.

She doesn't reply, swinging herself round the front of the van and bringing the engine to life with a hum. Desmond climbs up the ramp gently, Shaun's face resting in the nook of his arm and his chest, then gently lowers him into the animus seat. Rebecca sets to work taking his jacket off, weaving a sterile white bandage up over his shoulder and around again under his arm.

Desmond sits across from her, watching intently.

She doesn't say a word the whole trip back, and neither does Lucy.

::

Desmond lifts Shaun again and down the ramp, moving quickly into the den. In the forty-five minute drive Rebecca had cleaned the wound quite a bit, Desmond noted. The white bandage was now dotted with some of the residual blood but its starkness let Desmond know Shaun was no longer bleeding, which gave him a small sliver of solace. He watched Shaun's head bob ever so slightly with each step, still unconscious and slack. Lucy strode ahead of them, opening double-bolted doors wordlessly and with ruthless speed.

"Into my room, on the bed." She ordered him shortly, and he nodded whilst avoiding her eyes. In any other situation, he would've made the obligatory joke about her phrasing, but he was too pre-occupied with the rising and falling of Shaun's chest – the mesmerising signs of breath that he was so lucky to be having.

Lucy stayed in the office area, whipping out her mobile and hurriedly pressing keys. Rebecca followed Desmond into Lucy's bedroom where they lay Shaun carefully onto the sheets.

"What now?" Desmond asked her, desperate to help in some way. She kept her eyes on Shaun for a few moments longer before she stared at him levelly.

"Now you leave whilst I get him out of those wet clothes."

Desmond made his way outside, and as he did Lucy made her way in, done with her phone conversation. She stared at him, expressionlessly before she left to aid Rebecca.

"Stay out here. Tell me when help arrives."

And then she closed the door on him, and left him to his thoughts.

Half an hour or so later, the doorbell buzzed loudly, yanking Desmond out of his worrying. Lucy strode out of her room, her hair looking dishevelled and her face caught in a frown. She pulled the front door open without saying a word to Desmond, and revealed an older woman – maybe in her late fifties – with a bun of silvery grey hair perched a top her head.

"So, 'ow is he?" The older woman immediately asked in a thick French accent, nodding and smiling as she caught sight of Desmond. "'_Ello._"

"Hi." He nodded back, rubbing the back of his neck sorely. Lucy ignored him.

"He's lost _a lot_ of blood, I can't be sure how much but it isn't good. Coupled with that and being in the cold water, his body has gone into shock..."

Desmond felt his stomach churn.

"I'll do what I can." The woman murmured. "It will be 'ard though, without the proper tools –"

"– We can't risk hospitals."

"I know, I'm just letting you know. I can't make any promises, but I will do my utmost best, Lucy." The older woman placed a hand on Lucy's shoulder, offering her a meek smile.

"Thank-you, Annette."

"Now leave us." She said softly, and left to enter the bedroom. Rebecca came from the bedroom as Annette entered it, the door clinked shut behind her, and finally Lucy turned around to face Desmond, Rebecca at her side.

"Come with me to the kitchen. Both of you. " She muttered, shaking her head worriedly as she strode past him once more. Desmond followed obediently, too tired and worried himself to butt heads with the headstrong leader of their team. She closed the kitchen door behind the three of them, letting her shoulders sag with a near contemptuous sigh.

"Why did Shaun leave the den?" She demanded, turning on him with speed. Her eyes flashed with anger and he felt his breath hitch slightly.

"We went to get coffee."

"His idea?"

"Mine." He replied.

She was silent for a few seconds, but her eyes narrowed. "Tell me what happened."

Desmond sighed, his eyes leaving her face to stare out of the small square kitchen window. Outside, the sun was low in the sky – about an hour or so away from sunset. He grimaced and pulled a chair towards him blindly, sitting on it and facing her again.

"There was a waitress. She passed me a note. It said there were Templars in the diner and they had bribed her." He waited for a split second for a nod or sign of acknowledgement, but all he received were her fierce eyes glowering down on him. He continued.

"She took us through the back for safe passage. She betrayed us. She went to shoot me with some tranquilliser or dart... needle, thing. Shaun moved in the way and took it for me. She shot him with a gun then. I got it away from her, I kicked her... made sure she was unconscious."

"And then?"

"Then we made a run for the river."

"Shaun was able to run after being shot and sedated?"

"No, no I carried him. Well, supported him with one shoulder. It was more of a hobble toward the river, I guess. We made it, I jumped in and eventually pulled up the riverbank. That's where you found us."

"Did you see the contents of this needle?"

"Yeah... it was yellow and sort of thick. Gooey..."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

She thumbed her forehead. "Rebecca, can you go tell Annette about this needle and whatever else you can offer her."

Rebecca left and Lucy bowed her head, folding her arms as she did with a low sigh.

"What on _earth_ were you thinking, Desmond?"

"It was just a cup of coffee – I didn't think we'd have any trouble."

"Yeah? Tell that to Shaun." She shot, lifting her head in accusative spite.

He ignored her. "Is he going to be okay?" Desmond nearly pleaded her, leaning forwards in earnest over the kitchen table.

"I don't know. It's touch-and-go, now. We don't know what was in that needle and what it does. He's lost a lot of blood and we don't have the right medicinal facilities to deal with injuries of this scope."

"If he needs a transfusion, I'll give the blood – all he needs – gladly–"

"– None of us here are his blood-type." Desmond felt his breath catch before she continued. "Annette has enough though to make a transfusion. I don't know if it's going to be enough to replace all he lost, though. Maybe you should've considered these things before leaving the den without informing Rebecca and I?"

"It won't happen again."

"Oh well good. Go in there and tell that to Shaun, I'm sure it'll speed up his recovery."

"Oh, _enough!_" Desmond roared, suddenly on his feet, the chair sliding out with a scream against the tiles behind him. "You don't think I feel _bad enough! _Why don't you hammer it home some more! You give me flak for apologising because it won't make a difference and then you stand here and berate me for something that _I can't change!_"

"_I'm trying to make sure you don't pull something like this again!_" She yelled back at him, undeterred.

"I said it _fucking _won't! What more do you _fucking _want, Lucy, huh? Tell me what you _fucking_ want!"

Her brows furrowed angrily at him, her chest heaving alike to his own with seething anger. "I'm making sure –" She hissed through glinting teeth. "– That you understand the repercussions of something like this. Shaun could _die_, or worse _you _could've died. Make sure you fully comprehend that before you go leading an expedition out into the–"

"– What did you just say?" Desmond, his eyes darting over her face. She paused, regarding him angrily.

"I said to make sure that you comprehend–"

"No, no. You said that Shaun could die, or worse – me. What is that even supposed to mean? His life is worth less to you?"

She bristled and he took a step closer to her.

"Answer." He demanded.

"If we lose _you_, Desmond – we lose _everything._ The Templars will destroy our way of life, everyone's way of life. Shaun is a soldier, and Shaun is my friend. But you are the key to _everything._ Rebecca and I would lay down our lives for you in a heartbeat. And I think you know first-hand that Shaun would too."

He reeled back from her, steadying himself on the table. The guilt washing over him almost bringing him to his knees. _'Oh god, Shaun..._'

Lucy shook her head, steadying her breaths, but her hands still balled in fists by her sides. "I thought you would understand that already."

Desmond sat down again, clasping his hands together on the table's wooden surface and hunching himself over them.

There was a temporary silence them, the clock in the kitchen ticking, marking each painful second of silence that passed between them. Desmond bowed his head even lower, obscuring his face from Lucy as he spoke.

"This morning I woke up, and I didn't know my own name." He spoke quietly.

Lucy remained silent.

"You and Rebecca were already out, and... and I thought I was alone. I staggered out of bed, I- I didn't recognise anything – I didn't even know the year. Shaun had to sit me down, tell me my name again. Bring me back..."

"Desmond..."

"I needed something. _Anything_ apart from the whir of the animus and the silence of this den. I just... couldn't... I couldn't take it. Shaun protested but I guess he... kind of understood that, maybe. I dunno... I wouldn't have gone on my own. I just..."

He looked up at her, her hands slackening from their balled fists to hand limp by her sides.

"I just wanted to have a cup of coffee with a friend – like before all this shit happened. I'm sorry."

Lucy came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her head over his shoulder.

"No... I'm sorry, Desmond."

She worked her hands around his arms and onto his own clasped fingers. She clasped them herself and sighed gently into his cheek.

"It's been a funny sort of day, hasn't it." Desmond murmured.

::

_In and out._

There was a low hum, a sequential beeping.

_In and out._

Apart from that, there was a still silence. But another sound – his sound.

_In and out._

His own breaths, loud and swirling in his own ears. Had he ever breathed that loud before? Had he forgotten how loud breathing could be? He felt disillusioned – blind and confused.

_In and out._

His own breaths, in and out. In and out. Like the pulling of the tides, static and constant. But something primal in him told him his breathing was a more precious sound today – something to be savoured, just for a moment.

_In and out_.

His eyelids, stiff from lack of use, fluttered open.

Light greeted him away from the sleep of darkness, but a blind darkness was replaced with a sea of white. Blind again. He felt something on his face, something alien.

_In and out._

He struggled.

_In and out._

His arms felt unusually heavy, lead-lined and useless. He was beginning to feel increasingly useless and hopeless now, the beginnings of panic fluttering in him. There was something on his face, he needed it off of him – it didn't belong. He gave a groan and struggled again.

" – _Mon dieu, you awaken."_

That sound came from a lifetime away, a continent across the sea of white drowning his eyes. His breaths quickened and the sound of them deafened him. These sensations were not normal – alien and terrifying. The sound from the other continent meant nothing, they fell upon his ears like garbled hums.

"_Calm down. Calm down. Ssssh, ssssh._"

The sound was closer now. A voice. A person's voice. But it was unfamiliar and he did not trust it, finally his arms began to respond to him properly. He reached up and clawed at the thing on his face.

"_No! No, you need that. Mr. Hastings, wake up._"

Mr. Hastings. Shaun Hastings. That was his name. Like the cornerstone in a pyramid of blocks, that core solid thought and memory fell like a seed in his mind – everything else sprung from it. _Italy, Assassins, Templars, Coffee, Tea, Desmond, Bullet, Pain_.

His eyelids flashed open again, struggling to see. From the haze of white small shapes began to reveal themselves, shifting into focus like the wheel of a camera. He stopped clawing at the thing on his face when a hand eased his own away, and with gentle cooing, pulled the plastic away too.

_'Plastic._' His brain reminded.

He could discern a face now. A woman's face, old, smiling, warm and friendly. She slid the plastic-thing away from him and he dimly registered it was an oxygen mask. He glanced at her clothing. White lab-coat.

"Who..." He murmured, trying to speak normally but only working out a pained whisper. She gently released the mask and moved a glass of water to his lips. He drank it gratefully, only aware of how thirsty he was when the idea of drinking was presented to him.

"I'm Doctor Annette Plourde, Mr. Hastings – but you may call me Annette. We are all friends here." She said quietly, a smile twitching over her lips as he shifted his face away from the glass.

He did not speak then, letting his thoughts recollect themselves. But something occurred to him before they could.

"Hospital?" He asked.

"No, no. You are in the den, shall I fetch your comrades?"

"Sure." He murmured, eager to make some sense of his jumbled head with the sight of a familiar face. She slid the oxygen mask back over his face.

"Relax." She said quietly, and left him.

He threw back through his thoughts to find his latest memory – Desmond in the animus. Desmond beginning to break into Italian and not knowing it. Desmond waking up and not knowing his own name.

He exhaled. _In and out._

He remembered going to get coffee.

_In and out._

Something then – a flash of something he half remembered. Searing pain in his shoulder. As if awakened to his mind's call, his shoulder gave a pang with solid _real_ pain. He winced, steadying himself with his own breathing.

_In and out._

And then he remembered being shot, and all the memories that came with it. Desmond pulling him across cobblestone walkways, the surge of icy cold water, and then nothing.

"Shaun!" His ears rung with a familiar voice, finally. '_Rebecca'_ his brain reminded again, and his eyes rolled up to the source a little more feverish and weakly than he would have liked. The black crop of hair swung as she took up beside the bed, her eyes shining.

His hand crept up to pull the mask away but she stayed him. "You should keep that on – rest while you can. Just... let me know you're okay by blinking twice."

He did so, albeit sluggishly and slightly too slow than he, again, would've liked. He noted the new, dull lapse of time between his brain's commands and his bodies reaction to them. She beamed regardless, flashing her white teeth with such pure joy that he felt his own mouth twitch into a gentle smirk. He gave a gentle sigh, sliding his eyes closed for a mere moment to enjoy the pleasant relief of knowing he wasn't bedridden in a Templar-infested hospital ward.

Unbeknownst to him then, he was tugged back down into foggy sleep, the warm light of the suns rays playing over his face from the window.

_In and out._

_In and out._

::

The next time Shaun slid his eyelids open, the sun in the window was almost at the horizon. At least a day and a bit had passed, he mused, absently.

"Shaun?" A voice asked him, tentatively, from his other side. He looked over to see Desmond seated by the bed, both hands resting on the sheets, his eyes alight with concern.

"Des." He tried through the oxygen mask, finding again that only a muffled rush of air made it through. Desmond instantaneously reaches to his aid, sliding the mask off, pulling the elastic straps out from behind his ears with a tender care Shaun finds almost uncharacteristic of him. Once the mask is away he gives a contented sigh and mutters thanks.

"How are you feeling?" The bartender asks him.

"Never better." The historian replies, and Desmond looks at his face – now free from the oxygen mask – and feels the familiar ache of guilt that's been accompanying him for the last five days. Shaun has always been pale but Desmond can recognise the lack of colour that should usually have been on his face, the dark bags sitting under his eyes despite four days of undisturbed rest. His lips look dry and cracked and his hair tousled and unkempt. Shaun looks up at him then and murmurs. "You look terrible, mate."

"Says you." Desmond replies, but his voice lacks any mirth. He even smiles a little in spite of himself. "It's good to see you awake."

"How long was I out?" Shaun asked dryly, his attention drawn back to the window.

"About five days."

His eyebrows lower a little in confusion and he glances back at Desmond. "I was shot."

"Yeah."

"That's a "sew-and-go", right? A couple of stitches and back up and running, yeah?"

"Not this time." Desmond told him gently, offering a meek look of sympathy. "The bullet hit an artery and you lost four pints of blood."

Shaun stared at him blankly, shock seeping into him. "Christ."

"You must still be in pain."

"Well." Shaun murmured, recovering from the shock. "You know, only hurts when I laugh." He went to give a light-hearted shrug, stopping when an explosion of pain erupted from his left side. He gave an uncontrolled groan of pain, his breath hitching in his chest as the agony gripped him.

As the pain ebbed and receded he was aware of Desmond's hand under his back, easing him cautiously back onto the pillows. He tried muttering a thanks again but could not, his breathing deep and fast as he tried to reign in the pain.

"Try not to move." Desmond said anxiously, his face fraught with concern. "Do you need more painkillers?"

"No." Shaun managed through gritted teeth. "Like to... remain conscious for at least an hour, today. Slept... enough."

Desmond nodded, his face still etched with concern, Shaun looked at him.

"This is all my fault." The bartender admitted solemnly. "I'm so sorry, Shaun, really–"

"– Templars' fault, mate, not yours." Shaun cut in, trying to make up for the lack of solidity in his voice.

"No... You knew from the start it was a bad idea to leave the den. But I wouldn't take no for an answer. I was selfish, and I'm sorry." He continued, bowing his head slightly to stare at his hands.

"Des." Shaun murmured groggily. "People don't usually get attacked on the way to get a cup of coffee, alright? Don't do that to yourself, mate."

Desmond sighed, unconvinced. "Just... I... I am sorry, though."

"Hey." Shaun slid his hand away from his side and onto Desmond's wrist. "Don't worry about it, alright. No harm done."

Desmond laughed derivatively, taking his eyes up away from his hands to look at Shaun again. "No harm done? Look at you..."

"I didn't die. I'll be fine, okay?"

Desmond's lip tugged town into a slight frown.

"What?"

"How much can you remember, Shaun?"

Shaun searched the ceiling, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly as he searched back in his head. "Glass breaking... cold water... Some prat asking me the first Prime Minister of England." Desmond gave a half-smile. "Why?"

"You know, Annette managed to work out what that waitress shot you with – apart from the bullet, I mean." Desmond told him. "She said she would've been surprised if you were conscious for more than sixty seconds – let alone ten or fifteen minutes."

"Guess that's just my warrior's spirit." Shaun muttered, and Desmond smiles at him weakly.

"You did die, though. In a manner-of-speaking. You weren't breathing for about four minutes, and your heart stopped."

"What?" The historian asked, his voice betraying his shock. "Was I poisoned?"

"No – the drug was a sedative, but..." Desmond winced as he spoke. "I pulled us down the river for a good half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. I couldn't see how much blood you'd lost in the water – and it was cold, Shaun. Really fucking cold. Annette says you went into shock after that... and by the time Lucy and Rebecca arrived –"

"– arrived?"

"Yeah. I managed to call them and they found us up by the river-side. As they got out of the van, you just... stopped... breathing." Desmond finished carefully, searching Shaun's face almost apologetically. "Rebecca gave you CPR."

"... And I guess it's fair to say I started breathing again, after that? I mean–"

"Yeah. You did, but... for about three or four minutes there... You didn't have a pulse, Shaun. You were gone. I just... thought you should know now. I mean, when you say "no harm done"... It was a close call, Shaun – a really close call. And I'm sorry."

Shaun was quiet then, and tentatively reached up and placed a hand on his heart as if to check it was still beating now. He looked ahead of himself, almost dazed, and then back to Desmond.

"Did she cry?"

Desmond sat for a few seconds before he could speak. "What?"

"Rebecca – did she cry? C'mon mate, you can tell me."

Desmond swallowed, looking at him incredulously. "I don't recall."

"She did, didn't she? I knew she looked _too _relieved when she came in yesterday."

Desmond shook his head at him in disbelief. "I tell you that you were technically _dead_ for a few minutes and all you can ask is whether Rebecca cried or not?"

Shaun started to laugh for a few seconds, abating when his shoulder seared in protest. He grimaced as a low hiss escaped his lips. "Bloody hell."

"I did say not to move." Desmond rebuked lowly. "But, I mean, y– you're not..." He paused, searching for the right word for a few moments. "...Upset? You're not upset that you... you know, almost... and it was my fault? I'd picture you being livid, Shaun, in all honesty."

"Doesn't change anything." Shaun told him, conversationally. "I'm still here, still breathing. As I said, no harm done." And the historian offered him a genuine smile, such a rare event that Desmond couldn't help but feel himself smile back.

"After all that though, I didn't even get to finish my coffee. What a waste." Shaun murmured, jokingly, staring away back out the window.

"Oh! That reminds me – stay here."

"Not like I can actually move, though, is it?" Shaun corrected him with a reproachful raise of his eyebrow. Desmond didn't reply as he left the room, and Shaun kept to staring at the window. The dull throb that Shaun hadn't mentioned to the oddly distraught Desmond continued persistently in his shoulder, aching rhythmically like it matched the beating of his own heart. He gritted his teeth lightly with discontent, still watching the leaves on the tree twirling, attached to their branches at the window beside his bed.

He slowly felt his ability to keep track of time passing leaving him, the leaves on the branches swirling like green dancers. A small brown sparrow began to warble a tune in the distance, and the throbbing dulled into non-existence and his thoughts receded with the possibility of sleep.

"Hey." A voice announced from far away. He brought himself back, slowly, and realised how oddly heavy his eyelids were.

"Don't fall asleep yet." Desmond laughed.

"How tired can a man who slept for five days be?" Shaun asked groggily, and looked over to Desmond, now carrying a white steaming mug.

"So you made me coffee." Shaun mused.

"Almost." Desmond told him with a smirk. "Here."

Shaun tentatively grasped the warm white mug and knew from a half-second glance at the liquid that it was tea. The steam rising from the mug brushed his fingertips, and he felt the warmth spread down past his knuckles with a contented sigh. "Thank you, Des. I thought we were all out, in all honesty." He added feebly, and raised the cup to his lips.

"We were." Desmond acknowledged.

Shaun picked up on the rich smell of the brew an instant before it hit his tongue, but in that instant he knew exactly what it was even before he had tasted it. He sat propped on the pillows, a white mug clasped in his fingertips and eyes closed in pure bliss.

"Yorkshire Gold." He murmured, a smile on his lips. He opened his eyes again. "How?"

"Turns out Annette has an impressive network of friends. She pulled a couple of strings. There's a shop in Napoli that sells boxes, as it turns out." Desmond smiled warmly at him, almost in a goofy fashion.

"Desmond, I think I just fell in love with you."

"Save that for Rebecca." Desmond snorted, and laughed.

"I should get shot more often if this is going to be the treatment." The British man remarked jokingly. He glanced across as the small lapse of silence settled between them to see Desmond' s face fall ever so slightly.

"Hey, hey – don't do that, okay? I'm fine. Everything's worked out alright, yeah?"

"Yeah..." Desmond agreed slowly, and forced himself to smile.

Shaun finished the tea, taking his time and sighing deeply with every savoured mouthful. "Tastes like home." He said aloud, closing his eyes contentedly.

"Should I leave you and the tea alone?" Desmond asked him with a raised eyebrow.

The bed-ridden man chortled. "No, no. I just finished it anyway." He settled the cup on his stomach, still clinging to its warmth with his hands. "Thank you, Desmond. It means a lot – really.

"Tea?" Desmond smiled, lightly.

"This stuff–" The historian said, tapping the mug. "– Many a weeknight spent drinking cups of this in my youth – pouring over a book, perusing the rich tapestry of world history at my fingertips. Or I'd be out on the balcony, watching the London street below." He smiled to himself nostalgically. "Takes me right back there – to an easier time. Well–" He titled his head "– I didn't think it was easy at the time, but by comparison..."

"I hear you." Desmond agreed with a tired rub of the side of his temple. "Those late nights tending the club? I hated them. But I'd give anything to be back in those days now." Desmond shook his head then, looking at the window. "Can I ask you something, Shaun?"

"Shoot." He replied, and Desmond gave him a disapproving look, but continued nonetheless.

"Why did you push me out of the way, back in that alley?"

Shaun thumbed the surface of the cup, feeling its lingering warmth dissipating. "Because we're mates, right? You'd do the same for me." He raised his eyebrow questioningly. "I hope."

The black-haired man nodded. "Of course."

"Good." Shaun said, nodding as well. He tried to lean cautiously to his right to place the mug at the bedside table, but after giving a hiss of pain Desmond reached over and did it for him, shaking his head again.

"... '_Don't move'_, I say, so what does he do?" He muttered disapprovingly.

"I'm not an invalid." Shaun snapped, and Desmond caught the trademark snark laced in his tone and almost laughed because of it. He looked across at the sun, its orange rim flickering over the tips of the trees.

"You should try rest, now. How about those painkillers?"

Shaun gave a weak, defeated nod and Desmond stood.

"I'll get Annette."

By the time he returned with Doctor Plourde, Shaun had fallen asleep again.

::

Twelve days then passed and Shaun, by Annette's permission, was up and about again – although she made him keep his shoulder in a sling, just to be safe. When he walked about Desmond noticed how precariously he held it, gently and with a stiffness – and Desmond noticed the momentary hisses of pain he gave when he had to give exertion, but for the most part, he made a decent recovery, and for that, Desmond was thankful.

On that twelfth day since their discussion in Lucy's bedroom, Shaun leaned back on the kitchen counter – his daily cup of Yorkshire Gold tea in one hand, his other arm tucked into his torso with the sling. He had explained to Desmond his rationing system of the eighty teabags, saving the last ten for emergencies. The bartender had laughed.

Rebecca had been with him to get a new pair of glasses, and they looked remarkably similar to the ones he had sported before. The steam wafting from the tea fogged them slightly as he sipped it. Lucy read the paper across the room and Rebecca stood opposite Shaun, stirring sugar into her espresso.

Desmond sat sideways on the animus, his knees dangling from the edge, a half eaten apple in one palm.

"Desmond? Yeah, Des." Shaun circled his teacup to attract Desmond's attention away from his apple. "Just a question that hadn't really occurred – how did you use a phone when it had been through a river?"

"Oh." Desmond said, nodding in remembrance. "I guess your jacket protected it or something. Dumb luck, I suppose." He waved his apple as he shrugged, and took another bite.

"Guess that stroke of luck saved my life, then."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Rebecca countered, looking at him from over her shoulder.

"Well, if you hadn't of been there, Bec..."

Rebecca raised her eyebrow questioningly at him. "Me?" Desmond nearly choked on his apple chunk, moving to stand, waving in protest.

"No, Rebecca – he's right. Isn't he? I mean your CPR–"

She smiled at him almost patronisingly, Lucy stopped reading her paper and looked up at them both. "– I didn't resuscitate you, Shaun. Desmond did."

Shaun turned to look at him, incredulously. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Well, you know, what are friends for?"

"Why do you look like a deer caught in the headlights, mate? Are you alright?"

"Probably got something to do with the mouth-to-mouth..." Lucy murmured quietly, flicking a page of the paper whilst Rebecca's grin widened.

"What?" Shaun asked shortly.

"I gave you CPR–" Desmond tried but Lucy cut him off, not looking up from the print on the paper.

"– No, he gave you mouth-to-mouth –"

"– Mouth-to-mouth is a _part _of CPR!" Desmond hissed at her, fingers digging into his apple. He risked a look at Shaun who regarded him with an almost insulted look of shock.

"You gave me mouth-to-mouth?"

"You weren't _breathing_ you great British idiot–"

"– Oh my word, I can't believe you had your _mouth _on mine! Why couldn't you let one of the _girls_ do it!"

"Nobody really stopped to discuss your personal preference! I just did it!"

Rebecca sniggered into her cup.

"Oh well, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself Rebecca." Shaun snapped. "Also glad to see you were eager to give me the breath of life."

She shrugged casually. "Mouth-to-mouth isn't actually a standard procedure of CPR any more." She glanced over at Desmond. "Sorry, I know it's not the way you were taught –"

"– No, no no no no _no_." Desmond jumped in as Shaun turned to the sink, filling a glass with cold water and gargling for effect. Lucy was biting back a laugh as Desmond looked to her for support. "I can't believe we're even discussing this, it saved your life–"

Shaun spat the water back into the sink, wiping his mouth and giving him a reproachful stare. "Did you brush your teeth that day?"

Desmond stared at him levelly with a dark frown. "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

"Is that a no?"

"– Look." Rebecca said, stepping between them with her hands raised. "We've got a busy day ahead. And we've all seen how fast the one-armed man can type, so maybe you should stop arguing–" She said, giving Shaun a condescending glare. "– And start working, alright?"

Desmond spun around, moving towards the animus and easing down into the seat with his eyes closed. He forced himself to give an aggravated exhale, his eyebrows lowered in irritation.

"Hey." Shaun muttered from above him, and Desmond flicked his eyes open to glower at him.

"I was only winding you up, mate." And gave him a reaffirming pat on the shoulder, smiling like he had won a victory.

"_Sod off_." Desmond said to him bluntly. "You crippled _ponce._"

Shaun laughed uproariously and Desmond felt his blood cool, the fleeting beginnings of a laugh tugging at his own lips. He rolled his eyes and Shaun patted his shoulder again, leaving him to the Animus.

Desmond closed his eyes and worked on giving himself mental composure and clarity for his session. But he hadn't fallen back into Arabic or Italian for at least a fortnight – far from forgetting his own name. He felt invigorated and ready but beneath, he was at peace, happy.

He smiled.

"Ready, Des?" Rebecca inquired, moving to slide the visor over his face.

"Ready." He acknowledged.

_Fin~_

.

.

.

:::::::::::::::::

_A/N: _

_Yorkshire Gold – _

_I honestly just picked a brand of tea that my mother drinks a lot (She's a patriotic Englishwoman, herself) and went with that. I believe it's actually pretty common in Britain, but for the sake of this ficlet let's pretend it's hard to come by._

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So there you have it. I attempt to write a friendship fic and end up writing the main characters into emotional, painful situations. It is kind of my heartfelt wish that Desmond and Shaun be slightly more friendly in the canon. Here's hoping we get to see some more of the world's snarkiest historian in AC3.

Peace out, my lovelies xx.


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